


See You Tomorrow

by teacuphoneybee



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Overdosing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, sorry chase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 20:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18484018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphoneybee/pseuds/teacuphoneybee
Summary: Chase swears, cursing his past self for only buying one bottle. What use is restraint if he’s just going to end up drinking anyway? As far has he’s concerned, the only difference between three drinks and ten is the price tag. Either way he’d wake up hungover and full of regret, which will just lead him back to the bottle again.Unless he didn’t wake up at all.





	See You Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Read tags for warnings.

Useless.

Chase thinks to himself, downing another drink.

Stupid.

It burns, but not enough. If he can’t be numb he wants to feel _something_.

Failure.

He goes to pour more whiskey into his glass, but only a single drop comes out.

Pathetic.

He swears, cursing his past self for only buying one bottle. What use is restraint if he’s just going to end up drinking anyway? As far has he’s concerned, the only difference between three drinks and ten is the price tag. Either way he’d wake up hungover and full of regret, which will just lead him back to the bottle again.

Unless he didn’t wake up at all.

Chase knows that thought should at least make him pause. Humans are supposed to have some sort of preservation instinct, right? He’s pretty sure he heard some old hack rambling about that on a true crime show. Or maybe it was just Henrik. He laughs.

It would be so easy.

He leans back on the couch, limbs feeling heavy. His vision swims, tilting and blurring each time he moves his head. But it’s not enough - it’s never enough. After months of binge drinking he couldn’t even get a buzz without downing at least half a bottle. Unless he starves himself first. He’d been doing that more often lately, sometimes without even realizing. Nothing seems to have a taste any more. Everything is just bland, boring, a waste of time.

A waste of space.

He reaches a hand up over his head, giggling to himself as it wavers. As it sways, he turns it slowly, looking over the hundreds of tiny scars. Some are a faded, ghostly white, while others are still puffy and red. They match the countless others on his hips and thighs - just another habit he’d never been able to kick. It’s his body, who the fuck cares what he does with it.

No one cares.

Least of all Chase. He hasn’t done anything in almost a _year_. He just locks himself in his room, cycling between recording videos and drinking himself stupid. Now that he really thinks about it, he can’t even remember the last time he went outside. Or talked to someone. Huh.

No one would even notice.

Chase pulls out his phone, squinting at the screen. He closes one eye, unable to keep them from crossing on his own. Maybe he’s a bit more drunk than he first thought. But, just as he expected, there are no new calls, texts, or even emails. Just a bunch of useless notifications. That’s what he gets for isolating himself for so long. That doesn’t make it sting any less, though.

They would all be better off.

His thoughts drift back to the last time he really felt something - when he broke his arm trying to do that stupid stunt for his Bro Average channel. He hasn’t posted a video as himself in ages. No one really seemed to care that he disappeared. Henrik gave him some good shit after that, though… He wonders if he still has any left.

It would feel so good.

It wouldn’t be the first time he mixed pills with liquor, that’s for sure. He’s been messing with the shit since high school. That’s the funny thing about depression, honestly - it doesn’t go away, it just changes. But his shitty coping skills seem to just keep building up. Self harm, pills, drinking, smoking, anything to stop that empty ache in his chest. At least he managed to drop the reckless sex. It only took knocking up one girl to send his already shit life spiraling straight into hell. As much as he loves his kids, that’s still one of his biggest regrets.

Nothing will ever change.

No matter what he does, he’ll always just be Chase. Deadbeat divorced dad, failed Youtuber. With each passing day things just get harder and harder, worse and worse. He should’ve realized he was a lost cause when even Jackie stopped trying. Something starts to stir in his chest, and he longs to push it back down.

Anything is better than this.

He drags himself up from the couch and stumbles to the bathroom, stopping to lean against the wall a few times on the way. The hallway tilts and spins, and he giggles again. Everything just feels… stupid. Once he reaches the bathroom he flicks on the light, swearing at the fluorescent bulbs for being so damn bright. He rummages through the cabinet, knocking several objects into the sink, until he finally finds his prize - a small bottle of painkillers. He slams the cabinet shut, and is almost startled at the reflection staring back at him. His hair is long and greasy, his beard scraggly and unkempt. His eyes are red and lined with dark, heavy circles.

Disgusting.

Chase presses his face up against the mirror, meeting his own gaze, before pulling back and spitting at it. God, he’s a fucking wreck. A horrible, stupid, repulsive fucking _disaster_ of a human being. In a moment of pure rage and impulsivity, he slams his fist into the glass. Shards rain down into the sink. When he pulls his hand back, a few splinters are still sticking out of the skin. He smacks them away, not even registering the pain. It’ll probably hurt like a bitch in the morning, though.

There’s an excuse.

He glances back down at the bottle of pills and grins. Perfect. He makes his way back into the kitchen, swaying and tripping over his own feet. Tugging open the fridge, he nearly weeps with joy at the sight of an unopened bottle of champagne. He had bought it for… something. The thought slips out of his mind just as quickly as it arrived. It doesn’t matter now, though. Booze is booze, and he needs something to wash down these pills with anyway. After some struggling he manages to pop the cork. Happy Fucking New Year, he thinks to himself, giggling. He unscrews the pill bottle and downs a few, chasing it with the champagne. He vaguely recalls Henrik saying he could handle eight of these without dying.

But really, a few more couldn’t hurt.

Chase loses track after fifteen, his entire body feeling like tv static. Everything feels so wavy and heavy and _good_. He falls back on the floor, knocking over the empty bottle, and writhes against it. The cold tiles feel good against his heated skin, and he’s caught between moaning and laughing. He doesn’t feel sad, or empty, or even in pain. As a test he drags his nails down his neck, hard enough to draw blood, and then slams his already injured fist onto the tile floor. He doesn’t just feel okay, he feels…

Wonderful.

He rolls over and reaches for the pill bottle, only to find it empty. That can’t be right. Chase tries to pull himself upright, to search for the remaining pills he knew had to be there, and the room to starts spinning violently. His vision blurs and his skin suddenly feels so, so cold. Nausea hits him like a train, and he’s pretty sure he’s vomiting, but at this point he can barely tell. It’s all too much and he can’t breathe he can’t think he can’t see until-

Nothing.

Everything goes dark.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Bullet by Hollywood Undead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lP077RitNAc)


End file.
